Haze
by ChemiToo
Summary: It's been a month since America won his independence, and France hasn't heard from England since that fateful day. He goes to England's house to check on him, only to find that he is not handling things well at all. Drug usage and depression involved, probably some language later on.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I can't stop writing about Hetalia. HALP. I suppose there are worse problems to have though, right?**

**This story is kind of heavy. Drugs and depression are involved-you have been warned.**

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France knocked on the doorframe, noting with an unpleasant jolt that the door was cracked open. That wasn't like England at all, to just leave the front door open like that...

"Angleterre?" he called as he stepped inside. The place was an absolute mess-papers strewn haphazardly about, all manner of furniture and trinkets littering the floor...France cringed as he saw one of the parlor room chairs protruding from one of the windows, jagged glass announcing how it got there. The curtains had been partially ripped from their rods, lying messily across the parlor room floor. The late afternoon sunlight bathed the room in an eerie orange light as France cautiously crept farther inside of England's home.

"Angleterre, are you in here?" he called worriedly as his boots crunched onto something. He cursed under his breath and looked down at the object. What remained of a shattered bottle of some kind of alcohol...whatever it was, it definitely wasn't wine and smelled foul.

"Oh, Angleterre," he muttered as he shook his head and wandered into the kitchen. It was as if the room had been upturned; pots and pans, utensils, even a hunk of moldy bread littered the crowded countertops. France's nose wrinkled as he heard a mouse squeak from somewhere, but England was nowhere to be found.

He cautiously made his way into the dining room, which was in a similar state as the rest of the house so far. The long dining table had been overturned and lay pitifully on its side, a tattered burgundy tablecloth clinging to one of the corners and splaying out onto the floorboards. It was as if a hurricane had blown through, France noted vaguely as he heard a thump from above his head. He frowned, pausing only for a moment before making his way up the staircase. Music floated to him from one of the rooms on the upper floor. Not melodic and elegant like his music. No, this was very formal and regal-sounding, like a march being played from a single lonely violin.

He stopped dead as a peal of maniacal laughter met his ears and the music abruptly screeched to a halt. He shivered; that was not England's laugh. Hell, England hardly laughed, but when he did it certainly didn't sound like _that_, like one teetering on the edge of madness. He absently fingered the pistol at his side. If there was an intruder, he'd be ready.

He drew a deep breath as the violin sprang to life again from one of the rooms down the hall. He had to stifle a cough-something wafting through the air choked him. Smoke? Was something on fire? Steeling himself, he slowly walked down the corridor and stopped in the open doorway at the far end. England was facing away from the door, toward a wall whose paper and adornments had been literally ripped free and deposited onto the floor at his feet. He hummed merrily as his violin shrieked and belted out possibly the worst rendition of "The World Turned Upside Down" that France had ever heard. The man's hair was disheveled, clothing messily hanging off of his thin frame as he swayed unsteadily to the wild sounds of his violin.

France tore his eyes from the man in front of him and scanned the interior of the room. The air was filled with a thick haze, stinging France's nose. It was wafting from a pipe strewn on the windowsill to England's right. He frowned; he recognized that smell from somewhere, but he couldn't quite place it. It certainly wasn't tobacco.

He watched sadly as England tottered unsteadily and thumped against the bedside table at his left. He clumsily caught himself, dropping his bow and violin to the floor with a clatter. He giggled, stooped to pick them up, and ended up falling over instead. He lay on the floor in a heap, snickering and waving his arms about haphazardly.

Bleary green eyes suddenly found France in the doorway and surveyed him with disdain.

"Ah, so you're here," he said flatly. France fully expected him to frown, but he didn't. A delirious grin crept slowly across his haggard face instead, making France nervous, "Come to rub it in, have you?" he sighed as his head lobbed unsteadily onto his right shoulder.

"No, I came here to check on you," France corrected gently as he stepped inside of the room and crouched on the floor in front of England, "I hadn't seen you for a few weeks since-"

"Since you turned America against me?" England asked brightly, as if he were asking what time it was. France's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he looked the other man over. He looked...odd.

His concern only intensified as England suddenly burst into a peal of hysterical laughter, sliding down where he had been propped against the wall and onto the floor.

"What is wrong with you?" France asked quietly as he reached over and pressed his hand to England's forehead. He felt warm, but he didn't think he was running a temperature or anything. England looked up at him, blinking slowly and grinning.

"What're you doing, Francis?" he slurred as he tried to bat France's hand away and failed. His arm stopped short, falling tiredly onto his chest instead.

"Seeing what's wrong with you," France answered worriedly as he coughed. That smoke in the air was thick, starting to make him feel strange. Fuzzy, almost-

France frowned deeply as a sudden rage took hold of him. Part of him wanted to smack England while another part longed to embrace him all in the same instant. England. His poor, poor England. France refrained from either impulse, settling instead for hoisting the other nation to his feet and pushing him out into the hallway.

"HEY!" England yelled indignantly as he stumbled out of the room and staggered into the wall across from the room. France slammed the door of the room closed with a scowl, keeping the smoke at bay as he glared at England quietly.

"Opium," France declared as he grabbed England's wrist and shook it, "You've been smoking opium,"

England blinked up at him, pupils barely visible in a sea of emerald green as he dissolved into a giggle fit. He slid down the wall, but France held him aloft by his arm.

"Oh no you don't," France warned as he literally dragged the other man down the hall toward another bedroom.

"Franciiiiiiis," England whined, tugging weakly against the other nation's grip, "C'mon, what're you doing?"

"Getting you somewhere you can sober up," France snapped, trying to ignore the lump forming in his throat. It was horrific, seeing England like this. Worse than he'd feared. England had always been a strong, independent nation. Undaunted, unhindered, and unafraid...and yet, here he was. Broken, defeated, and alone. It had only been a month since America finally obtained his independence, and the Brit clearly wasn't taking it too well. Not that France had expected that England would be cheerful about it, but this? He cursed himself for waiting so long, wanting to give England some time to get himself together. If only he had gotten here sooner...

England giggled as France directed him into what he assumed was a guest room and sat him onto the mattress. France sighed, shaking his head and bringing over a chair from the far end of the room. He plunked it in front of the bed and sank into it tiredly. England seemed to be having a difficult time sitting up as he tottered unsteadily, grinning like a fool.

"Angleterre-" France stated, but England cut him off.

"You...you just shut it, Frog," England sighed as his head lolled dizzily to the side. He lurched back into a sitting position, only to nearly fall over again.

"I think you should lie down," France suggested, but England was having none of it.

"Don't you tell me what to do," he warned, "I'll kill you, you know," he added darkly. A split second later, he had dissolved into laughter once again, falling back onto the mattress and waving his arms around. France looked on sadly as England's laughter finally began to trail off, replaced by silence as he sank into a drug-induced slumber.

France waited a few moments to make sure he was asleep, then gently lifted England's legs so he was lying on the mattress instead of halfway off of it. England mumbled something, but didn't wake. France sighed, taking the opportunity to excuse himself and look at the state of the rest of the house.

To say that it was a mess would be a gross understatement.

"All right," France sighed as he shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, "Let's get this cleaned up," he said to himself.

He would start with the kitchen.

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**A couple of notes: "The World Turned Upside Down" is the tune the British army played when they surrendered at the end of the Revolutionary War. Poor England. :(**

**Also I had to do some serious Wikipedia/Google searches to look up symptoms of opium usage and withdrawal symptoms. Nasty stuff-don't do drugs, people. I read that one of the symptoms is having really tiny pupils, which is why France mentions how small England's pupils are. Opium trading had a big part in history, especially as Britain's influence in the East grew.**

**Don't worry, England-France is here to help you out now. I wanted to portray him in a non-flirty/creepy way here, since I get the feeling that he really does care about the younger nations, especially England.**

**Thanks for taking the time to read! ^_^**


	2. Chapter 2

England was still asleep by the time France finished tidying up the kitchen. It had been horrifically filthy, but was suitable for cooking in now, at least. He had placed an old bookshelf in front of the broken window in the parlor and cleaned up the broken glass, just in case the window caught the eye of some thief lurking about.

France slung his jacket over the back of his seat as he looked England over worriedly. It was an unnatural sleep, France noted, and were it not for England's chest subtlety rising and falling he would have feared for him. He frowned as he took his seat and began his vigil at England's bedside.

Opium. God, how he hated that stuff. Not only did it reek, he didn't like seeing what it did to some of his subjects. He'd rather just drink wine if he wanted to get silly. The drug from the Orient filled him with unease, and France made certain to avoid it. But, as England's influence in the Far East grew, so did his involvement with the stuff. He had never been one to indulge in it before, though. Not that France recalled. He'd seen England take painkillers before, but nothing like this. Usually England prided himself on staying sharp and alert, ready for whatever foe emerged trying to contest him.

France frowned sadly as England muttered something in his sleep. A name.

"...America..." he repeated, kicking his legs restlessly. He tossed and turned, whimpering. France looked on worriedly, standing up and putting a hand on England's forehead.

"You're too warm," France observed with a frown as he went out in search of a bowl or basin of some sort. He found one in the newly-cleaned kitchen and threw open the front door. He shivered; the night air was chilly, especially since he had forgotten to put his jacket on in his haste.

As he drew water out of the well on England's front lawn, he couldn't help but wonder what America must be thinking now. France had offered his assistance when the budding young nation had approached him for aid, claiming that he wanted his independence simply to be free from England's intolerable taxes and nagging. But France was a much older nation, and he knew better. He knew there was something more to America's rebellion than that.

He grabbed the bucket, filled the bowl with water, and hurried back inside. He closed the door behind him and headed up the steps, careful not to slosh water all over the place as we went. He heard England before he saw him, crying out in his sleep like a frightened child. France ran the rest of the way down the hallway, bursting into the room and hurriedly plunking the now half-empty bowl onto the floor. He rushed to England's side and caught him up in a tight hug, drawing the other nation to his chest as he shook uncontrollably.

"There, there, mon ami," he soothed, patting England's back like he would little Canada's when he woke from a nightmare. England hiccuped into his chest; France guessed he was crying.

"G-get away from me," England demanded, though his voice trembled. France let go of him as he pushed away, landing clumsily on his elbows. His green eyes seethed at him beneath his blonde bangs, matted to his head with sweat. Oh, how pitiful he looked; eyes glassy with tears, face clammy, stark purple rings beneath his eyes...

"Angleterre, how are you feeling?" France asked gently.

"Great," England snapped irritably, "I'm _Great bloody Britain_!" he shouted as he laughed, more of a bark than anything else. He went quiet after that as if surprised by the volume of his own voice, blinking down at the bed sheets nervously.

"Here," France said as he dunked a cloth into the water basin, squeezed it, and gently placed it onto England's head. He frowned as the other nation ripped the cloth away and threw it across the room.

"I don't need your bloody help," he growled, trying to sit up and ending up flat on his back instead, "Just get out of here, France," he added, though it sounded more like a plea than a demand.

"Non," France answered curtly as he rose from his seat to retrieve the cloth, "Not until you are well again,"

England snorted loudly as France stooped down and picked the cloth up off of the floor. He sighed, trying to maintain his patience. England was sick; he probably didn't even realize what he was doing, he told himself as he took his seat and pressed the cool cloth to England's forehead. The other nation didn't resist this time as his eyes fluttered closed.

"I don't...want your help," England insisted drowsily.

"Well, you're getting it, so shut up," France answered coolly as England drifted off again. He sighed, running his hands tiredly through his hair. Weeks. England had been like this for weeks, now, suffering in his lonely house. He licked his lips nervously as he tried to think of what to do. He'd have to keep an eye on him, certainly. France knew what happened next with these opium users, and it was never pretty. And, of course, there was the issue of his fragile mental state to contend with. France vaguely wondered if America even realized the power he held over England, how deeply the older nation's feelings ran for his former charge and colony.

"Probably not," he figured with a sigh as he rubbed his eyes. No, he was too young to understand the repercussions of his decision, at least not the long term ones. In his mind, he probably figured...

France shook his head, chuckling bitterly. Countries, especially young ones, were positively exhausting. He took out his pocket watch and flipped it open-quarter after seven already. He sighed again, getting up out of his seat and walking out of the room. This was going to be a long night.

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**Author's Note: I'm pretty sure that historically, France was all about the opium trade (The Opium Wars, etc.) but for this story I wanted France to be against it, especially once he saw what it was doing to England. More to come.**

**mon ami = my friend**

**Non = no**

**Thanks for taking the time to read! ^_^**


	3. Chapter 3

"Angleterre-"

"NO!"

"Arthur-"

"LET ME _GO_!"

France pursed his lips as England clumsily lashed out at him, slim fingers grabbing fistfuls of France's hair and harshly tugging. This was oh...the fifth? time that evening that England had tried to rush past him and get his next opium fix, and had been thwarted at every turn. France was determined not to let him escape out that door and ruin all of his hard work.

"Stop it, Arthur," France coached as he pried England's fingers loose from his hair and lightly shoved him backward.

"Don't call me that," England bristled, growling as he reared his arm back and managed to land a blow to the side of France's face. France hesitated as his cheek stung, briefly considering smacking the other nation into next Tuesday. Ultimately he decided against it-the other man was sick, after all.

"Fine," France conceded through grit teeth, "But _sit down_,"

"Don't tell me what to do," England warned, glaring at him through fierce, sickly eyes. It had been a few hours since he had woken up, and the craving for opium was strong. It had been all France could do to subdue him so far-the withdrawal was making England ferocious. He had succeeded in tearing the sleeve of France's shirt, kicking him in the stomach (which still hurt, France noted with a snarl), and upending just about every article of furniture in the spare bedroom in his frenzy.

"You're sick, Angleterre," France explained for the umpteenth time that evening, leaning against the door tiredly. England's eyes darted from France's eyes, to the doorknob clutched in France's left hand, and back up at his face, frowning.

"Why the hell are you here, anyway?" England demanded, "Hoping to cop a feel while I'm passed out? Bloody PERVERT," he spat, reaching for France's hand in an attempt to free the doorknob.

"Despite your incredibly low opinion of me, Angleterre, I _do_ care about your well-being," France snapped, frowning as he swatted England's hand away, "Which right now is not good,"

"_Which right now is not goooood, blah blah, le cheese and le wine_-SHUT UP, FRANCE," England mocked as he shook his fists angrily. France glared at him as England stalked to the other end of the room in a huff, arms folded tightly in front of him. The other nation noted sadly that England was shaking as if with fever, shoulders hunched around his ears as he quaked.

"I'm trying to help, Angleterre-I think you know that," France said flatly.

"Oh yes-just like you were 'trying to help' by sending ammunition and soldiers to help America leave me," England said sarcastically as he turned to glare at France, snarling, "Don't lie-you wanted to hurt me. And that's why you're here now, to hurt me again," he added bitterly, though his voice was soft. He turned away, staring at his reflection in the dark window instead.

France hesitated-he was right. France had been trying to hurt him before. He had never wanted to hurt England so badly as he had back then, and America had given France _the_ golden opportunity to do so. His colonies...his precious Canada-his precious trading industry in the New World, all lost under the hideous banner of the Union Jack. It pained him even now to think of how England had stolen them right out from underneath him, that bastard. And what was worse-he had sided with that lunatic Prussia, effectively destroying any hopes France had in expanding his influence in Europe.

France had vowed revenge, and he had come down hard, giving America every bit of help he could manage. He had poured his meager funds into securing the young nation's independence and had even managed to blockade British reinforcements from arriving at the very end of the conflict, forcing England to surrender.

Oh, that had been delicious-seeing England's surprised face, green eyes wide and bewildered as he looked out at France's navy waiting for him in the bay, daring him to come on out and try to make a break for it. And how he had fallen to his knees in front of America, battered and defeated-he couldn't tell from his telescope on one of his ships, but France had been pretty certain that England had wept. A devastated man, a broken and crippled nation-all thanks to France, and he had reveled in that satisfaction for days.

But that was then.

Now-

France yelped as England suddenly ran at him and shoved him onto the floor. The door freed, England made his escape and darted down the hallway. France swore as he scrambled to his feet and gave chase. England was quite nimble, evading him until he came to a screeching halt at the door where France had first found him. He struggled with the doorknob, finally managing to jiggle it and get the door open as France caught him.

"NO!" he cried hysterically as France clamped his arms around England's waist and dragged him onto the floor in the hall, "LET GO OF ME! LET ME GO! LET ME GOOOO!"

"ENOUGH!" France bellowed as he grabbed England's arms and forced them behind his back. England struggled, bucking his head up and hitting France in the jaw. Temporarily stunned, France let go of him. That instant of him backing off was enough time for England to wiggle free from his grasp and crawl up to the door once again. He threw it open with his hand and sped across the room on all fours to where the opium pipe lay dormant, its contents long since turned to ash. His fingers had just barely slid against the windowsill when France recovered.

France caught up to him, dragging him back out into the hallway by the ankles. England screamed and cursed at him like a petulant child, thrashing about as he tried to escape.

"STOP IT," France demanded angrily as he grabbed England by the shoulders, heaved him to his feet, pushed him into the wall, and clamped his arms at his sides. England struggled furiously, gnashing his teeth and shaking his head as France waited for him to calm down.

"Why are you DOING THIS TO ME?" England demanded as his wide green eyes welled up with tears, "DAMN IT, WHY?"

"Because you're better than this!" France snapped, shaking him. England resumed struggling, but France held him fast, "Look at yourself-this ISN'T you!"

"Just let me go, France, please," England pleaded as his eyes spilled over and he weakly gestured to the open door.

"Non," France said firmly, shaking his head, "Non, Angleterre,"

"But I _need_ it," England insisted as he began shaking again.

"No, you don't," France said, loosening his grip on England's arms a little. He immediately wished he hadn't, as England sprang out of his grip and tried to move past him. England whimpered pathetically as France reached out and pinned him to the wall again, gripping his arms tighter this time.

"France, why?" England spluttered as a new wave of tears burst free and slid down his face, "You've already ruined me...why torture me like this?"

France stared at him, stunned into silence by the harshness of his words. Yes, he had gotten his revenge, but he had never expected England to fall to pieces like this. He had wanted to teach him a lesson, show that smug Brit that France was no weakling, but he hadn't wanted _this_.

"Angleterre..." he hesitated as England let loose a wracking sob and slid down the wall miserably. France let him go, stepping back and crouching awkwardly in front of him. England drew his knees into his chest as he sobbed, folding his arms over his head. France let him cry for a few moments, uncertain of what to do. He felt sick-this was, at least partly, his fault. England, a great and respected world power, was reduced to a blubbering heap on the floor because of what France had done. Partly-he wasn't responsible for America's decision to come to him, but...still.

"...America hates me, Francis," England muttered into his knees. France could barely hear him.

"Non, mon ami, he does not hate you," France insisted gently.

"Yes he does," England spat, raising his head just enough to glare at France with one teary eye, "I...I can't do it..." he trailed off as his head sank back beneath his arms.

"Can't do what, Angleterre?" France pried. It took several minutes for England to compose himself enough to answer between sobs.

"I...can't...I can't lose him-I can't!" England cried as he tightened his grip around himself and sobbed again. France was about to say something comforting when England continued,

"I can't bear the thought of him hating me like you do!"

That statement absolutely floored France. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Several tense moments of silence followed, broken only by England's soft hiccups as he cried.

"That's why..." England spluttered suddenly, looking forlornly up at the doorway, "That's why I...I had to. T-to make it stop..."

France watched a few more tears slide down England's face for a moment before leaning over and embracing him, drawing him into his chest. England didn't resist, though France could feel that he was feverish and starting to quiver again.

"I am so sorry, Angleterre," he whispered into England's hair as he rocked him gently, "I don't hate you-don't ever think that I hate you,"

"...but...you-"

"I know," France interrupted with a heavy sigh, "You're right-I _did_ want to hurt you before. I longed for your defeat because of our...disagreements," he said hesitantly, searching for the right word. It tore him up that England felt like he hated him, but he wasn't about to be as forgiving about England taking Canada away, "But believe me when I tell you that America did not,"

France felt England tense up at that statement, but he didn't pull away. Perhaps he lacked the strength-France wasn't certain. Either way, he was glad that he didn't.

"He wanted his freedom, Angleterre-it didn't matter who it was," France insisted, "Whether it was you, or me, or...Spain, for that matter. He still wanted to be his own nation," he continued. That might not have been exactly true, considering France's suspicions on America's motives for breaking free from England, but he let it slide for now.

"You didn't see his face, Francis..." England murmured into his chest, "...his eyes,"

"I'm telling you he does not hate you," France repeated, "And neither do I,"

"Hm," England said, going silent. France held him for quite a while, tightening his grip whenever England shook and murmuring soothing words into his hair. He sighed, shaking his head-they must have been a sight. Two of the world's leading superpowers, disheveled and slumped unceremoniously onto the floor. Heh. It was almost laughable.

France did laugh, a soft chuckle, as he shifted and collected England into his arms. He was asleep, curled tiredly against his chest. He murmured something as France stood and walked him back down the hallway to the spare room, cracking an eye open to look up at him questioningly.

"...Francis...?"

"Go to sleep, Arthur," France advised as he walked through the doorway and set England down onto the mattress, "We can talk more tomorrow, non?"

England didn't answer, as he had already done as instructed. Though still pale, he didn't look quite as sickly as he had when France had first arrived. France smoothed England's hair and climbed into bed beside him, curling one arm around him so he'd feel it if England decided to make a dash for the opium again. He smiled; they hadn't been in the same room, let alone the same bed, since they were children. His smile grew as England shifted closer to him, snuggling into his chest and snoring softly.

"It will be all right, mon ami," France reassured him as he closed his eyes.

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**Author's Notes: Heavy chapter is heavy. France definitely wanted revenge on Britain after the events of the Seven Years' War, which resulted in France losing Canada to England. An alliance between Prussia and Britain in Europe, in the meantime, secured a partnership between the world's largest army and the world's largest navy, respectively, and France's involvement in the war led the nation to massive debt. Seeing the American revolution as a way of getting back at England, France backed the revolutionary effort and helped secure America's independence. In the Hetaliaverse, France probably saw America as England's Achilles' heel and sought to crush him. I'd like to think that he regrets it, though, seeing as England was really hurt by it.**

**Thanks for taking the time to read! ^_^**


	4. Chapter 4

England awoke to a splitting headache. He moaned miserably, reaching up and rubbing his throbbing temple. It did little for the pain, but it made him feel like he at least could do something about it. He slowly opened his eyes, pausing and letting them adjust to the light before opening them fully.

He froze. Someone was lying next to him, and whoever it was had his or her arm protectively curled around his shoulders. England cautiously tipped his head up, looking directly into France's sleeping face.

"Oh God," he blurted as heat rose in his cheeks. What the hell had happened? Why was...? He peered down at himself, relieved to find that both himself and Francis were fully clothed. But, what?

His outburst must have woken the other man up, as he stirred and opened his eyes.

"Ah, good morning, Angleterre," France yawned, smiling at him, "How are you feeling?"

England didn't answer right away, staring up at the other nation in confusion and trying desperately to recall the events of the prior evening. They had been...talking, right? Something about...oh.

Oh, that was right.

"You know where you are, non?" France pried, rubbing England's shoulder in what was supposed to be a comforting gesture. It actually made England more nervous, but he tolerated it because of the pain in his skull.

"I...in my house," England said slowly, processing, "And you came over, and..." he trailed off, turning his gaze onto the ceiling instead, "And I was on opium," he sighed, ashamed, "Bloody idiot," he hissed, cursing himself. He was only going to smoke a little, just to take the edge off after he had run out of alcohol, but it had obviously turned into much more than that based on the current state he was in.

"Oui, mon ami," France said, "But I think the worst is over,"

"God, I hope so," England moaned, throwing his arm over his eyes to make the light shut up, "France, you didn't have to-"

"Nonsense!" France insisted, "I came to make sure you were well, and that is what I intend to do. Now-how about breakfast?"

"...what?" England asked, freeing up his left eye to look at the other nation in confusion. France had raised an eyebrow at him, smirking.

"Breakfast. I'm sure you've heard of it. It's when people eat in the morning after they wake up-" France drawled sarcastically.

"I know what bloody breakfast is, git," England snapped, though he smirked too, "And yes, breakfast sounds lovely," he added.

"Bon!" France declared as he sat up and flung his feet onto the floor, "I probably won't be able to make anything that you'd appreciate, seeing as your taste in food is subpar at best, but-"

"Francis," England said suddenly, cutting him off.

"Oui?" France asked after a moment's pause. England cautiously sat up and stared down at his hands in his lap.

"Did you mean it?" England asked quietly, refusing to meet the other man's gaze, "About you not hating me? And...America?" he added even more quietly.

France frowned sadly at the desperation in his voice, the pleading hidden amongst the words.

"I meant every word, Arthur," France said firmly, fighting the urge to put his hand on England's shoulder, "Neither one of us hate you,"

Relief briefly flashed across England's face, but it was only for the tiniest of moments before a haughty smirk took its place.

"Well, then," England sighed as he scooted to the side of the bed and unsteadily got to his feet, "If you don't hate me, then you'll make me scones for breakfast,"

"Scones?" France blanched, "Absolutely not-those things are disgusting,"

"They are not! They're great!" England insisted hotly, though he smiled at him.

"Sure they are, if you're looking for a weapon," France snapped back, grinning.

"And what is THAT supposed to mean?" England demanded as France led him out into the hallway.

"It means they'd be perfect to hit someone in the head with, mon ami," France laughed as they walked toward the stairwell, "Or if they were stupid enough to eat it, you could bring your enemies to their knees once their stomachs started revolting,"

"Pfft, have you ever even tried them?" England huffed as he leaned on the railing and slowly descended the steps. France followed close behind, making sure he didn't fall.

"Once," France admitted with a shrug.

"And...?" England pried.

"And I threw up," France stated flatly.

"Oh come on," England snapped as he reached the bottom step. He paused, staring open-mouthed at the state of his home, "Ugh," he moaned, shaking his head and hiding his face in his hands.

"We'll get this place straightened up, mon ami, don't worry," France reassured him as he pat him awkwardly on the back.

"I'm so embarrassed," England muttered into his palms.

"Well, you go ahead and be embarrassed. I'm going to make, eh...scones..." France trailed off, shuddering. England separated his fingers so he could peer out at him.

"Really?" he blurted.

"That's what you want for breakfast, non?" France asked playfully as he gestured for England to follow him into the kitchen, "Come on, you'll have to show me how to make those horrible things,"

"They aren't horrible-they're British," England corrected as he headed behind France into the kitchen.

"Oui, which makes them horrible," France stated curtly.

"Oh shut up," England snapped, laughing. France laughed too, glad to see a smile gracing England's face once again. He grinned as England fussily taught him how to "properly" make scones, nagging him about not being precise enough or not using the right utensil for the right step in the process. Things were looking better. England was getting better.

And, France admitted to himself as he saw the other nation flit around the kitchen, he was better as well.

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	5. Epilogue

He approached the painted green door with trepidation, running a quaking hand through his hair. He could do this. He HAD to do this.

"Come on, man, pull it together," he muttered to himself as he drew a deep breath and raised his fist to knock. He froze about halfway through rapping his knuckles on the door, cursing quietly under his breath. He let his arm fall limp at his side, defeated.

This was stupid. What was there to say, anyway? It had been over two months since everything had gone sour between the two of them, and he hadn't heard so much as a whisper from the other nation. He grit his teeth, shaking his head and shoving his hands into his pockets.

"What am I doing here?" he murmured quietly as he tilted his head back to look into the gray sky. It looked like it would rain soon, as it so often did at the other nation's home. Normally, he would have scoffed and called it too gloomy. Now, though...it reminded him of someone he'd missed far too much for far too long.

Steeling himself, he threw his arm back and was about to collide his fist with the door when a soft clicking sound met his ears. He leapt backward in surprise as the door slowly opened.

Emerald eyes met sapphire ones as England stared up at him in shock.

"A...America?" he breathed.

"Hey there...England," he answered sheepishly as he looked down at his feet.

"Get out," England snapped.

"W-what?" America whimpered as he looked back up at him. To say that he looked angry was an understatement-America was fairly certain England was gearing up for an aneurysm. His face was mottled with red, green eyes ablaze as he glared at him from the doorframe.

"I _said_: get out," England hissed as he narrowed his eyes into slits. Such light in those eyes, beneath those rather intimidating eyebrows...

"But, England, I-"

"No," England interrupted, putting a hand up to stifle him.

America's shoulders slumped, dejected, as he worried his lower lip for a moment. He could just turn around. He could just leave, and the two of them could just pretend that he'd never shown up here at all.

Or, he could do what he had come to do.

Mustering his courage, America raised his chin in defiance and shook his head.

"No, England, I'm not leaving until you hear me out," America insisted. England actually looked rather flustered, though America could only tell because he used to spend so much time with him. A barely perceptible twitch of England's lips, the beginnings of a snarl kept in-check by his impressive level of self-control. America had always admired that about him, though he knew he could never manage such a thing himself.

"You have sixty seconds," England growled as he folded his arms over his chest.

America inhaled deeply, taking a moment to gather his thoughts-

-which swiftly left his mind as he looked into England's face. God, those green eyes. Deep and expressive, brimming with fatigue and a profound wisdom that only a nation as powerful as himself could possess.

"I...uh..." he stammered, feeling his face growing hot. If possible, England's glower became even darker.

"Forty," England snapped.

"What?" America blurted, panicked.

"Thirty-five," England said coolly as he leaned against the doorframe, the scowl on his face growing even more severe.

"W-wait a minute!" America pleaded.

"Thirty," England reported mechanically.

"I-I just wanted to come over here and tell you-"

"Twenty-five," England interrupted.

"-that I...well, heh...I guess I-"

"Twenty,"

"Stop that!"

"Fifteen,"

"Oh COME ON, you're not even counting right-!"

"Ten,"

"England, come ON-"

"Nine,"

"I'm TRYING TO TALK, HERE-"

"Five,"

"If you'd just-"

"Four,"

"-quit being such a-"

"Three,"

"-total-"

"Two,"

"-freaking ASSHOLE, maybe I'd be able to actually SAY WHAT I-"

"And, zero," England sighed with a smug grin as he stood up and gave America a curt nod, "Well, America, this has been a lovely visit. Now go away,"

"Damn it, England," America growled as he clenched his fists. He had anticipated difficulty from the other nation, but not this level of obnoxiousness. Hell, it was more like something _he_ would do than the normally reserved England would.

"Good day," England quipped, stepping back into his house as he moved to close the door.

He gasped in surprise as America slammed his weight against the door, knocking the handle right out of England's grip.

Wide green eyes stared up at him in shock as America leaned forward, so their foreheads were nearly touching.

"Arthur, I'm not leaving until you hear me out," he growled. England physically jumped at hearing his human name, but remained stubbornly rooted where he was. America was slightly relieved that he didn't attempt to back away, but didn't dare smile. He had managed to stun England in to silence, which is exactly what he needed.

"England, I've been thinking...a lot," he added. He frowned as England snorted.

"You? Thinking? That's a novelty," he quipped with a delicate flick of his wrist.

America glared at him for a moment before continuing, pressing their foreheads together and watching England's porcelain face flush a lovely shade of pink.

"I love you, Arthur," he said quietly as he gently cupped England's face in his hands.

He flinched as England suddenly lurched away from him as if he'd been struck.

"Love? LOVE?" he demanded angrily, "What the HELL do you know about love, you imbecile?" he snapped, voice quivering.

"Arthur-"

"Shut up," Arthur spat, shaking his head, "You don't know what you're bloody talking about. Get out. Leave. Now,"

"But, Arthur, I-"

"Alfred, _please_," England sighed, exasperated, "Just...just go. Leave. Leave like you left me a few months ago, why don't you," he added bitterly.

That was it. At those last words, something inside of America snapped.

"I did it for YOU, Arthur!" America shouted as he grasped the other nation by the shoulders and shook. England stared up at him in shock, mouth agape, "For both of us!"

"Y-you left me!" Arthur insisted as he attempted to pry Alfred's hands from his shoulders. Alfred only increased his grip, causing England to hiss in irritation.

"Yeah, I did!" America insisted, "I'm not your kid brother anymore, England-I'm a COUNTRY, just like you!"

"LIAR!" England bellowed as he stomped on one of America's feet. Alfred yelped, but didn't loosen his grip on England's shoulders, "You're NOTHING without me!" England insisted as he dug his nails into America's arms.

America grimaced and shoved England into the doorframe, pressing the other nation's back against it as he stared into his eyes. Emerald flames glared right back, though America noted how the flush of pink had returned to his cheeks.

"You're right," America whispered, "I'm not,"

England blinked at him in shock.

"But I don't want you as my big brother, or as the nation that owns me," America continued softly, "I want _you_, Arthur, as a fellow nation. My equal. My..." he hesitated, swallowing as he struggled to find words for what he wanted to say, "Aw, fuck it," he conceded as he crashed their lips together.

England made a muffled noise of surprise before flinging his arms around America's waist, drawing him closer as America's fingers found purchase in England's disheveled blonde hair. His free hand tightly grasped England around the middle as he roughly, desperately moved his lips against England's.

They broke apart, breathless, and stared at one another in surprise for a few tense moments before America reluctantly stepped back and smiled.

"W-what are you doing?" England asked quietly.

"I'm going to go and make my country great," America answered with a crooked grin, "Great enough that you'll notice me, Arthur. We're going to be more than just two nations, someday. Just you wait and see," he added with a nod as he walked out of the doorway and down the path.

* * *

France ducked behind one of England's shrubs as America bounded down the path past him and down the road. He peered out, watching England's slack-jawed expression from where he stood frozen in his doorway.

France grinned as England slowly reached up and ran his fingers along his lips, his face flushed a delicate pink.

He chuckled as he snuck out of England's yard and back down the path toward his house. He had decided to visit since he hadn't seen England in a few weeks, just to check and see that he was all right. He'd stop by later, perhaps when England wasn't so hopelessly flustered. America obviously hadn't planned out that kiss very well, bumbling through the entire thing, but it had been cute regardless.

"I knew it," France muttered under his breath with a smile.

This should be interesting.

* * *

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